


it holds me 'til i ache (overflow and start to break)

by discowing (ameliafromafairytale)



Series: wingfic [1]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman and Robin (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Wings, Bruce Wayne is 'dead', Damian Wayne is Robin, Damian is homesick, Dick Grayson is Batman, Dick does what he can to help, Gen, Good Parent Talia al Ghul, Past Child Abuse, Talia al Ghul is Not a Rapist, Wingfic, Wordcount: 5.000-10.000, and mourns Bruce in the process, because ra's al ghul's an ass
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-19
Updated: 2020-01-19
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:27:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22312477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ameliafromafairytale/pseuds/discowing
Summary: Damian is starting to fledge, and it brings up memories for both him and Dick.
Relationships: Dick Grayson & Damian Wayne
Series: wingfic [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1606042
Comments: 15
Kudos: 282
Collections: everybody loves dick





	it holds me 'til i ache (overflow and start to break)

**Author's Note:**

> so. im currently working on a really angsty fic that's driving me up the wall bc i hate writing emotional convos where one party involved is bruce "ive never talked about an emotion in my LIFE" wayne, and today i was like well, what if i try writing something that's 1) happy, to give myself a break, and 2) 1500 words or less because i need to work on how goddamn wordy i am in all of my writing 
> 
> spoiler alert: this is definitely more than 1500 words, and there's definitely some angst present. oh well! here, have some of my favorite dynamic duo (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧
> 
> (title from "an act of kindness" by bastille)

There’s a quote attributed to some anonymous poet that Dick often sees floating around; it’s widely popular, the kind of sentiment you see reprinted on Hallmark cards and motivational posters. He doesn’t remember the exact wording in English. He does, however, remember the way it had sounded in his mother’s French, the soft pronunciation and the gentle swoop of her vowels she whispered to him as she preened his downy baby feathers while his father worked on her feathers in turn. 

“Man would not have wings if he were meant to live alone,” it goes. Or something like that, at least.

Basically, life is better when you have someone to rely on. It’s a fancy way of saying it’s no fun having to preen yourself. While technically possible - it was Dick's only option for most of the time he lived in Blüdhaven - getting at the scapulars, the feathers near the spine, is difficult without a helping hand. 

If only Damian would be willing to accept this. 

Technically, his newest and youngest brother is still just ten years old, not yet anywhere close yet to enduring the perils and tortures of puberty. Still, for one reason or another, he’s begun to fledge early. Maybe it’s genetics, maybe it’s stress; Dick had fledged early, too, as had Bruce. The problem, though, isn’t that Damian is fledging early, it’s that he refuses to let anyone near him to help with his feathers...and boy, does he need help. 

He’s changed his preening routine to accommodate his emerging adult plumage, but whatever he’s doing, it’s all wrong - he’s applied some product on his feathers indiscriminately, smearing it so they're a greasy mess sticking every which way. It makes him look sloppy and disheveled, so against his character, but the unyielding pride and refusal to ask for help is all him. It’s driving Dick - whose family had died because of acid on their lines and sabotaged preening supplies - absolutely crazy. His fingers _itch_ to fix Damian’s mess.

“Your feathers are coming in nicely,” he says to the boy one afternoon when he runs into him in the kitchen, bending over a bit to get a look at his brother’s patchwork wings. 

Human wings are different than bird wings; there’s no direct correlation between bird species and the kinds of wings a person might have. Still, a person’s plumage doesn’t usually come out of nowhere. Usually, your wings resemble one of your parents, though it’s not that uncommon to see a blend of patterns and/or colors. 

Dick’s wings mostly resemble his mother’s. Like Mary Grayson’s, his are shaped for precision flying and making turns on a dime; they’re mostly black with bars of white, but there’s a few bright blue feathers at the tips that wouldn’t be out of place in his father’s plumage. Bruce’s, meanwhile, are solid black. They make Dick think of ravens, of throaty caws in cold, foggy graveyards, but in reality the appearance of his second father’s wings have nothing to do with his trauma. Rather boringly, his wings are simply the result of genetics, identical to the wings of almost every Wayne before him. 

Damian is going to break that streak, Dick can tell. Sure, there’s already some of the inky black feathers Dick had long ago come to associate with Bruce growing in, but there are a handful of elegant green and gold feathers so similar to Talia’s peeking through as well. They’re going to be beautiful - but easy to identify, which unfortunately means they need to be covered up for outings as Robin.

Dick reaches a hand out, hoping this time will finally be the time Damian lets him or Alfred do something about the mess he’s made of his feathers, but Damian jerks away. 

“Hands _off_ , Grayson,” he warns, glowering. “The itching is bad enough; I do not need your constant prodding and poking, as well!” 

“Alright, alright,” Dick says, hands up in surrender. He knows better than to try and initiate contact with his Robin when the boy is being prickly. “I just wanted to look.”

“Then look with your _eyes_ , not your _hands_ ,” Damian stresses. Okay, yeah, he’s got him there. 

“You’re right,” he says. “I’m sorry, I should know better.” Being honest and straightforward with apologies even for the smallest things is something new he’s working on, but it seems to be doing wonders for building trust between him and his Robin.

“Hmfph,” Damian huffs. “The feathers are coming in adequately, but I wish they wouldn’t take so _long_. The incessant itching is _maddening_.” His voice leans into a whine, and for a second he sounds every bit the ten year old he actually is. 

“It’ll be over soon enough,” Dick says, though he’s eyeing the goop caked on his brother’s feathers. _That_ can’t be helping the itching, either. “You know, I was thinking…”

“Don't hurt yourself,” Damian says, having gone back to what he was working on before. A drawing of a cat, it seems. Dick smiles fondly at him despite himself. He’s not sure why this grouchy child makes him happy when almost nothing else does these days, but he’s not going to question it. 

“When I was fledging, I had Bruce and Alfred to help me with my preening,” Dick says. “They showed me how so I could do it on my own when I grew up and moved out, but also because we were family. I did it with Jason, too, and Tim and Cass, even though they were all fledged by the time they came along. I know I’m...not your father, or even related to you by blood, but I still consider you my family.”

Damian turns around halfway in his seat to face him, pausing in his sketching.

“What are you trying to say?” he asks. “Are you implying that I am not capable of basic wing hygiene?” His ears are growing red, and Dick rushes to fix the situation before he takes offense and closes himself off.

“No!” Dick says. He has to be careful not to let Damian think he finds anything the boy does incompetent; it won’t end well. “No, not at all. It’s just that we’ve been Batman and Robin for a while, now, and I thought, well...it’s a family tradition, to preen each other’s feathers.” Damian just blinks at him, an unreadable look on his face. “We don’t have to if you don’t want to, though,” Dick hurries to add. “I understand if you don’t see me that way.” 

Damian is quiet a moment more, just long enough that Dick’s beginning to regret opening his stupid, sentimental mouth. 

“You truly see me as family?” Damian asks, his voice quiet. “Not merely work partners, even after such a short amount of time?” 

“I do,” Dick says, nodding. “What can I say? I’m quick to love, and very slow to let go. You were family the instant I made you Robin. Probably before that, even, if we’re being honest.” 

Damian looks down. 

“My mother was the only one who preened me before,” he says, and Dick’s caught off guard by the shockingly personal admission. Damian rarely talks about his mother, or even his time with the League in general. “We didn’t dare trust anyone else in the League with it.”

Of course; allowing someone else to preen you leaves you deeply vulnerable and open to attack. Dick’s sure trusting the wrong person in the League could mean getting a literal knife in the back, or even sabotaged or mutilated wings. No wonder Damian won’t let him or Alfred near his barring serious emergencies. 

“Hey,” Dick says quietly, kneeling down in front of Damian’s seat to look up at him. “I promise that preening is _always_ a safe time in this household, no matter what’s going on or who’s angry at whom. I would _never_ do anything or let something bad happen to your wings, you hear me?”

“But how can I _know_ that?” Damian asks. 

Dick shrugs. “That’s the scary part,” he says. “You can't. But you trust me anyway, just like you trust me out in the field as your Batman to have your back. Or, at least I hope you do,” he says, finishing with a grin. 

“...I do,” Damian says, and Dick tries not to let on how deeply that simple admission touches him. Damian will pack up and leave the conversation if he senses Dick getting too emotional. “Okay,” the boy acquiesces. “I will...let you preen me. But consider this a trial run, _not_ a promise!” he adds. 

“Understood,” Dick says, standing. He offers his brother a hand, and even though they both know he doesn’t need it, Damian takes it anyway and follows Dick to the master bath. Like most rich people’s bathrooms, it has a massive shower with way more shower heads than any single average person needs at once (a stressed out, tired, and battered vigilante, on the other hand, though…). Dick pulls out two stools, and places them in the shower. 

“We’re gonna need to get some of that product off first,” Dick explains when he catches the look Damian’s giving him. “That’ll require some water. Take your shirt off, at least, and your pants, too, unless you don’t mind them getting wet.” He’s already shucked off his own tee and sweats, leaving him in his Red Arrow boxers (what can he say, he likes to support his teammates). After a moment of hesitation, Damian follows. 

Dick guides him to sit on the front stool, then grabs one of the shower heads to use like a hose and sits down on the stool behind him. Carefully, he spreads Damian’s wings out, suppressing the hiss that wants to escape at the sight of scarring on Damian’s back. It’s not a new sight, but it makes him angry every time. 

There are thin lines from knives of some sort, no doubt gained in battle, but also thicker, crisscrossed lines Dick knows come from lashings. Some are older - much, much older - and some are clearly from right before Damian came to live with them. He wonders how many times Talia had to tend to wounds on Damian’s back while preening. His throat burns with bile at the rage he feels towards Ra’s al Ghul, but he can’t voice it now, not with Damian still so hesitant about all this. 

“Alright,” Dick says, turning on the water and waiting until it’s comfortably warm, but not too hot. “We just want to get all the product off for now so we can start with a clean slate. I’m using a special shampoo just for wings, but you don’t want to use a lot, or use it that often. For the size your wings are right now, I’d say a nickel-sized dollop per wing once every week or so is all you should need.” He starts at the base of the wings where the product is most heavily (and sloppily) applied, and moves out towards Damian’s wingtips.

He decides to talk to fill the silence. 

“I told you that you were family the instant I made you Robin,” Dick says. “Have I ever told you why that is?” 

Damian shakes his head. 

“The name _Robin_ comes from my mom,” Dick explains. “I was born on the first day of spring, and she said I always bobbed along just like a robin. Neither she nor my dad had plumage that really resembled a robin’s, but it stuck. She called me her little Robin more than she called me by my actual name, I think,” Dick says, smiling fondly at the memories. “When my family was murdered, once I was living with your dad and found out where he was going every night, it seemed like the obvious choice to pick as my code name for when I inevitably went out with him.”

“It’s a way to remember and honor her,” Damian says, realization dawning in his voice. 

“Yes,” Dick agrees, working water through the boy’s feathers. “The original Robin costume, too, was an homage to the costume my family was wearing the night they were killed. We were performers, my family, and Robin to me was all about carrying on their legacy of spreading happiness and smiles. 

“At its core, Robin is about family,” Dick says. “Everyone who’s ever worn the costume is my family, whether they recognize that themselves or not.”

“Even Todd, and Brown?” Damian asks skeptically. “I was under the impression that you did not have any say in their appointment to the role.”

“Even them,” Dick hums. “See, that’s the beauty of family - you realize eventually that you can pick it yourself, but there’s always going to be a few you get no say in. Some of those are bad, sure, but I’ve found that with a little work, most of them are good in the end.” 

“I see,” Damian says. “And - do the rest see it this way? The other Robins?” 

Dick is quiet for a moment. 

“I don’t know about all of them,” he says eventually. “I’d like to think so. I explained it all to Jason back before he died, and Tim knows part of it since he was there at the circus that night, but I never got the chance to talk to Steph about it before everything happened with the gang wars and Black Mask. Maybe I could do that now, though I’m not sure how much she cares for anything Batman says despite it not being your father under the mask currently.”

“Hm,” Damian intones, but doesn’t say anything further. 

“Don’t worry,” Dick says. “Regardless of what they think, _I_ know what Robin is supposed to be, and now you do too. Their opinion of you can’t change that or take it away.”

“As if I would let myself be bothered by their inconsequential thoughts,” Damian scoffs, but Dick can tell by the set of his shoulders that he’s relieved by the support.

“You know, I think that’s part of what makes us so great together,” Dick admits. 

“What, that I don’t care for my useless predecessors?” Damian asks. 

“No, and they’re not useless,” Dick scolds gently. “They’re your siblings just as much as I am, try to understand that. What I _meant_ is that I know what it means to be Robin more than Bruce could ever know, which means I understand the position you’re in as Robin in a way Batman traditionally hasn’t in the past.”

“I see…” Damian says. 

“I’ve acted as Batman before, you know,” Dick says. “This isn’t exactly my first rodeo under the cape and cowl. There’ve been plenty of situations where Bruce needed me in the cowl to throw one person or another off his trail, but I also subbed long term for him after Bane broke his back a few years ago.”

“Let me guess, Drake was your partner?” Damian asks. “I am not surprised you think so well of our partnership, then, if that is what you have to compare us to.”

“Damian! What did I _just_ say about being nicer to your siblings?” 

Damian harrumphs, but lets Dick continue. 

“Tim was Robin then, yes,” Dick says. “But he wasn’t _my_ Robin. He was Bruce’s Robin before, and we both knew he’d go back to being Bruce’s Robin after my time was up. Knowing it was temporary affected our partnership. Not in a bad way, of course, but the Dick and Tim Dynamic Duo was definitely different than the Dick and Damian Dynamic Duo.”

“My name should be first,” Damian says. Dick laughs. 

“Not a chance! It’s Batman and Robin, not Robin and Batman,” he says. “It just doesn’t sound right to flip it around.” 

“To _you_ ,” Damian says, but he doesn’t protest further. 

“Tim and I, we were so chaotic. We didn’t have Alfred with us, either, like you and I do now,” Dick adds. “It was like I was back in college; we were like animals. Alfred was so mad when he came home and found out we’d both had our own individual cartons of juice we’d just been drinking straight from.” 

“Tt! That’s disgusting,” Damian says, and Dick can hear the scowl in his voice. “Drake does not surprise me, but I thought better of you.”

“I know,” Dick chuckles. “Don’t worry, I’m much more mature and refined now.”

“I should hope so,” Damian says. “You represent my father’s legacy now, which will one day eventually be mine. I do not want to pick up the legacy of a slob.” Privately, Dick thinks Damian will have some competition from Cass, but he keeps that thought to himself.

“Your father wasn’t much better when left to his own devices, you know,” he says instead. His chest aches at all the memories he has of living with Bruce when he was young and how much of a disaster the man was without Alfred around. He distinctly remembers he and Bruce frantically trying to clean the Batsuit as well as they could one time so Alfred wouldn’t realize they had stopped for cheap pizza during a lull in criminal activity on patrol. 

Dick reaches around and takes his brother’s hand, guiding it so he can feel his feathers.

“This is how your adult feathers will feel when they’re properly clean,” he explains. “They’re durable, but don’t be too rough, since damaging them can mess with your flight if you’re not careful.”

Damian nods, and stands when Dick does. 

“Now,” Dick says, spreading his wings out, grateful for how the shower is the size of a small room, “with your feather type, you gotta shake them out to dry; can’t just let ‘em sit like with downy feathers. Like so,” he demonstrates, rapidly fluttering his wings. Damian copies, sending water everywhere. Dick laughs, and feels his own smile widen at the sight of the small, but genuine grin on his brother’s face.

“Alright,” Dick says, “leave your shirt off, but you can put your pants back on now.” They go back into Dick’s bedroom, where he lays out two large floor pillows. He’s always preferred to do preening this way, but with Alfred pretty much his only option right now, he’s had to sit in chairs to give the old man’s knees a break. The cushions make it feel more like old times back in the circus, though, or even when Dick was young and still living with Bruce. 

Dick grabs his own supplies and takes a seat. The first is a small towel, just to take care of any excess moisture. 

“You want to make sure your wings are dry before you put anything on them,” he explains. “Otherwise, whatever product you use might not apply evenly, which can cause issues.” Then, he pulls out a jar of product, and a special feather comb. 

“After that, it’s a matter of personal preference,” Dick says. “I use a product that makes my feathers more water resistant. You can buy the kind that makes them waterproof if your feathers aren't naturally like that, but even the most expensive, top-of-the-line stuff will interfere with your flight. Unless you know you won’t have to fly, it’s better not to risk it.” He dabs the tiniest amount on his fingers, and shows Damian. 

“You don’t want a lot,” he says. “Too much can gunk up your feathers and, again, make it hard to fly. Just take a bit and apply it feather by feather. It’s tedious, but once you get the hang of it, it doesn’t take too long.” He takes the comb, flipping it around to use the skinny, pointed handle to guide the feather he just did into place. “Some people neaten up their feathers before they apply anything, but I’ve found it’s easier for me just to do it as I go.”

“And what if you don’t apply anything?” Damian asks. “Birds in the wild do not grease up their wings, after all.”

“Just because wild monkeys bite their nails doesn’t mean we shouldn’t use nail clippers to take care of the same issue,” Dick says. “We have our own grooming needs, and our own ways of managing them. 

“As for your question, for the most part you’ll be fine,” Dick continues. “You don’t need to shampoo as often, but you might find your feathers more susceptible to breaking or other kinds of damage. Certain products are nice, though, for the right occasion. I obviously go for water-resistant stuff, but there’s also kinds that are purely cosmetic, like powders to change your plumage color or something like hairspray to keep feathers in place. The list goes on. Can I ask what you’ve been using?” 

He sees Damian’s ears and the back of his neck go red, and braces for the answer. 

“Something I brought from...from Nanda Parbat,” Damian admits. “Mother always used it on my hair, and it looked similar enough to what she would use on her own wings, so I thought…” 

“I see,” Dick says. There’s no laugh to bite back at the blunder, not when he can clearly hear the homesickness in the boy’s voice. “I know things have been...difficult since you became Robin, but if we can figure out some way to contact her, I’m sure she’ll be delighted to see the way your feathers are coming in. Maybe she’ll even be able to tell us what she uses on her wings, and we can see if there’s some place to get it here.”

Dick might have issues with Talia, but voicing them in front of her son who clearly misses her isn’t the right thing to do. He reminds himself again that she’s just as much a victim of Ra’s as Damian is, and everything she’s done with Damian has been done to keep her son alive, even the questionable things he disapproves of. She, at least, kept her son from being dunked in the Pit, which was more than her mother could do for her. 

“Really?” Damian asks. “I know you’re not...fond of my mother; I thought for sure you would want me to avoid all contact with her.”

“Damian,” Dick says, getting up and moving so he can look his brother in the eyes, “she’s your _mother_. However I feel about her as a person, I know that she’s suffered a great deal to keep you safe from your grandfather, including separating herself from you to send you here. It’s okay for you to miss her and want to talk with her, understand? Don’t let my own issues with her get in the way of that.”

Damian’s eyes are wide. They’re a beautiful greenish hazel color, more natural than his mother’s and grandfather’s startling Lazarus green, and wholly unlike Bruce’s icy gray eyes. That helps, sometimes, for Dick to focus on. When Damian is scowling and being stubborn and so much his father’s son it makes Dick’s chest ache and takes his breath away, he looks at his brother’s eyes to ground him. 

“Grandfather would say such sentimentality is an exploitable weakness,” Damian says, looking away. 

“I think we’ve established by now that your grandfather only has _his_ best interests in mind, not yours,” Dick says. “He’s just jealous your mom loves you more than she loves him.”

“I...thank you, Grayson,” Damian says, glancing back at him briefly before looking down. Dick nods, and goes back to preening. He hums under his breath as he works, some song he doesn’t remember the words to that he thinks his mother used to sing to him as a child. Damian doesn’t interrupt him or ask him to shut up.

“This is the part that’s difficult to do by yourself,” Dick says as he begins to approach the feathers closer to the spine, “which I’m guessing you’ve obviously figured out for yourself by now. Technically, it’s possible to do alone, but having someone do it for you is much easier and almost guarantees better results. Kind of like life,” he says with a cheeky grin. 

“Who helped you when you moved out?” Damian asks. 

“The Titans, at first,” Dick says. “Kory, mostly, since we were together then, but the team is so close that we’ve all done it for each other at some point. It was harder when I moved to Blüdhaven, though, a lot of preening myself. I’d go over to see Babs or visit the manor when I could, but…” he lets out a sigh. “I’m glad that chapter of my life is behind me now, even if I regret how it ended.”

“You have myself and Pennyworth now, though,” Damian says, reading between the lines. “Gordon and Brown, too, I suppose, even if I do find their behavior obnoxious. Nevertheless, you are not alone.” 

“I’m not,” Dick repeats, agreeing. He’s touched by the loyalty. “And don’t worry, I’m not planning on going anywhere without you for a long time.” It's mildly terrifying to think about, that he's willingly tethering himself to Gotham and to the cowl for as long as Damian needs him, but that's just the kind of thing you do for family.

With Damian’s wings still small, not yet his adult wingspan, it doesn’t take Dick much time at all to finish preening. When he’s done, he pulls Damian to his feet and hands him a mirror. He moves him so that the boy is standing in front of the dresser with its giant mirror but facing away, and guides the hand mirror up so Damian can see the final result in its reflection. 

“See?” Dick asks. “There’s not much we can do for the downy feathers, but you’ll want to be in the habit of keeping your adult feathers nice and neat for when you’ll eventually begin flying.” 

His brother moves the mirror this way and that to catch every angle he can of his wings. Finally, he lowers it to look at Dick. 

“...Thank you, Grayson,” he says, then turns around to face the large mirror properly. At first, Dick thinks he’s examining his own wings in his reflection, but then Damian leans forward slightly and reaches out to brush his fingers along one of the many photos taped along the edge.

Dick fights to hold back the tears that unexpectedly burn in his eyes when he notices the picture Damian’s focused on. 

It’s a photo of Dick and Bruce, an old one from Dick’s early days in the manor. He’s young, a tiny thing, and his feathers are a soft gray, not yet fledged. Bruce is holding him above his head like he weighs nothing, lifting him up so he can pretend to fly on his downy wings. Both of them are smiling, and Bruce is so _young_ and _happy_ in the photo it’s almost like looking at a stranger. 

Damian should’ve gotten to meet that Bruce, Dick thinks. 

“Were you really once so small?” Damian asks. Dick huffs, coming up behind him to wrap a gentle arm around his shoulders. Miracle of miracles, Damian doesn’t pull away

“I’m sure we’ll be saying the same thing about you, one day,” he says. “As soon as you hit your first growth spurt, you’ll realize I’m not actually that tall.” 

Damian peers up at him, eyes flicking up and down over his form as he evaluates Dick’s words. 

“I suppose that’s true,” he allows, going back to gaze at the picture. “Father...he looks so happy, here.” 

“He hadn’t lost Jason, yet,” Dick says. Just like Bruce had mourned the Jason-that-was even after his miraculous return, Dick sometimes privately mourns the Bruce-that-was. 

“Was Todd’s death really so significant?” Damian asks. “He only knew him for...what, a year and a half? Two years at most? And then he was dead. How could Todd have meant so much to him?”

Dick squeezes the arm around Damian’s shoulders, pulling the boy in for a tight side hug. 

“We haven’t been together that long,” Dick says, “but I know I would be just as much of a mess if something were to happen to you, Dames. Time has nothing to do with it; Jason was his son, just like you’re my brother. When you’re responsible for someone like that...” he shakes his head. “It messes you up to lose them.”

Dick feels Damian lean against him. The boy doesn’t say anything, and Dick wonders what he’s thinking - perhaps about how shortly he knew Bruce, and the depth of his own grief. It’s something they haven’t discussed with each other, yet, but for now Dick’s perfectly fine with letting those boundaries go uncrossed.

“How long did it take you to fledge?” Damian asks, gaze shifting to another old picture. This one is more recent in that Dick has his adult plumage in it, but he’s still quite young, maybe twelve years old. Bruce stands behind Dick, both of them flaring their wings out to their maximum wingspan. 

“A few months,” Dick says. “The itchiness gets better, eventually, once you have a good chunk of your feathers in. It’s the growing pains that suck.” Damian eyes the picture, clearly calculating the significant difference in size between Bruce’s massive dark wings and prepubescent Dick’s much smaller ones. If Damian truly is going to end up as tall as Bruce, he’s going to be in for some painful growth spurts. 

“And how long does that last?” 

“Even after you stop growing vertically,” Dick replies. “Thankfully, I was done by about the time I turned seventeen. Perks of being short, I guess. With your genetics, though, I have a feeling you’ll be lucky if you’re done growing by the time you turn twenty.”

“ _Ugh_ ,” Damian grumbles. He’s quiet for a moment, long enough for Dick to worry about what he’ll ask about next, but instead of a question Damian opts to wrap an arm around Dick’s waist and return his one-armed hug. 

“Thank you for your assistance today, Grayson,” he says, and Dick can feel how the kid’s face burns through his shirt. All those lessons in manners Alfred’s been giving him are starting to pay off, it seems. “I am honored that you included me in your family’s tradition.”

“Hey,” Dick says, turning and kneeling in front of Damian. He takes one of his brother’s small, calloused hands and holds it between his own. “Remember what I said; it’s _our_ family tradition, now, okay?” Damian nods, his face still red from the embarrassment of saying thank you.

Dick stands, placing a hand on Damian’s shoulder. “Why don’t you head down to the bunker,” he suggests. “We can start working through Bruce’s contacts to see if there’s any way we can safely get in touch with your mom without alerting Ra's, okay?” 

Damian nods and turns to leave, but pauses in the doorway when he notices Dick isn’t right behind him. 

“I’ll be right down,” Dick says. “I just need to put this stuff away real quick. Go on, I’ll just be a second.” Damian hesitates a moment longer, then leaves. 

Dick turns back to his dresser, gaze roaming over the many photos he has taped to the mirror. Many of them are of the Titans, but just as many are of the Bats. There’s two on the right that are precious: one from his skiing trip with Jason before his brother’s death, and the other picture is the only one he has of the two of them together after his resurrection. His focus right now, though, is on another photo of himself and Bruce. 

It’s recent, from just a few months before everything went to hell in a hand basket, a selfie Dick had taken on Bruce’s forty-first birthday. He’s mid-laugh, his cheek pressed up against Bruce’s, and there’s a little bit of frosting smeared on his father's nose. Bruce, though he looks tired and every bit his age (and then some, maybe, too), still has a small smile on his face. It’s the same smile Damian had worn earlier in his amusement at how shaking his feathers dry had splashed Dick. 

The sudden wave of grief feels like a physical blow; Dick grabs the edge of the dresser to brace himself. Bruce should be here, he thinks. Bruce should be the one who sits Damian down and walks him through how to take care of his adult feathers, who places cooling packs on his wings when they ache with growing pains, who neatens out his sleep-mussed feathers, who guides him on his first flight, and more, but Bruce is dead. All that will fall to Dick, now, just as it fell to Bruce after the Flying Graysons died.

It’s not fair. _It’s not_ , and Dick wishes he could reach through the veil and tear Bruce a new one for leaving this to him. He wonders if Bruce ever felt the same way about Mary and John and Karla and Rick Grayson. 

The show must go on, though. Dick allows himself a moment to breathe, then scrubs his face and straightens. Damian’s waiting for him, and they won’t get anything done if he mopes around in his bedroom all day crying about the past. 

He has work to do.

**Author's Note:**

> tentatively marking as a series bc i wanna play in this universe some more :) what can i say, i had a maximum ride phase when i was 12...
> 
> ive said it before and i'll say it again: i refuse to bend to morrison's character assassination of talia. tbh, i had a reference to damian's original origin story in here, but i cut it bc i couldn't figure out where it was going, but just know in every fic i write talia loves damian to bits. 
> 
> also yj cartoon sucks but you can pry karla and rick and johnny grayson from my cold dead fingers. i love that they gave dick extra family and still killed them all for no fucking reason lmao 
> 
> visit my profile for my social media!
> 
> this work isn't technically inspired by it, but i want to give a shoutout to [@Lysical](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lysical/pseuds/Lysical)'s wonderful fic ["lift and drag."](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13215687) if you like the batfam and wingfic and haven't read it already, man, idk what you're on. it's great!!
> 
> EDIT 2/13/20: Fixed weird formatting issues around italics and made minor grammar/word choice changes.


End file.
